Where the Low Tide Sings
by CaideSin
Summary: you're gold and can't be sold. [demyx]


**Arabesque**

Demyx liked to smile.

He liked the modicums of sincerity and attention it would  
fake for him. Instances stretching ever longer, from the  
burning (beating, rejoicing, singing, lusting) need for  
hearts, to the sympathetic ear he bent to Axel's tirades of  
betrayal.

Demyx smiled slowly and laughed on cue and Axel took  
what he needed, and Demyx lost nothing at all. A fake  
currency in a fake world, and perhaps, without knowing it,  
Demyx was the most human of them all.

Plasticine features hiding the niggling, ugly, insecurities.  
He smiled. He played the bumbling clown and expressed  
himself in the lying lines of far too much flesh for his  
empty carbohydrate smile.

"My name is Demyx when I choose to have a name."

There were times when he was that smile, his mind was  
blank and his grin was his gauze and his opiate.

_(One by one the lights dimmed, leaving ruinous archways  
to empty realms. Perhaps, if one did not know where one  
was going, the arch would be as empty as the world inside  
it. Perhaps one might not go anywhere at all.)_

Demyx liked to smile, liked to get others to do his dirty  
work; like feeling and killing and betraying.

"I made no agreement with you."

The Superior thought otherwise and Demyx realized where  
he had gone wrong.

**A Marriage**

"If you can just get your mind together  
Uh-then come on across to me  
Well hold hands and then well watch the sunrise  
From the bottom of the sea"

Demyx's mouth grew wide and fanged as the ocean  
nexus snarled around him with pleasure.

Schools of fish wriggled tightly around his body,  
humming deeply with fraternity and a painfully intimate  
submission.

The others were afraid of this, for as long as they breathed  
air.

Afraid of drowning. Afraid of finding a visceral  
conqueror in the waves of their death. Afraid of drifting  
skeletons with darting vitreous eyes…

Demyx was cold and clammy to their touch and he—

Flickering dart of scales, perfect blue-and-green  
flittering fins.

The moons wavered in thrall, he looked up at them  
through the broken mirror of many. He smiled and  
touched her jagged edges, blood billowing into red  
clouds and then into nothing.

Moon and moment and nothing more, he had learned to  
feel.

"(well) I know, I know, youll probably scream and cry  
That your little world wont let you go  
But who in your measly little world, (-uh)"

The others were _afraid_. Afraid of still-life

lungs and his gentle smiles, which were _no different_

until the moons came and those silent demands became  
unknowable.

The little dead boy was the most curious, his sunken  
empty eyes so lacking in its creator's original intent.  
They were rather like a strange set of  
sapphires-and-pearls.

Demyx reached out achingly and breathed the waterlog  
from the little corpse's _lights_.

The pastel creature smiled bravely but grew rigid as the  
summons rippled through them, tickling the inflamed  
edges of the gaping wounds in their chests.

Demyx began to move, bound by writs far older than  
hearts and their heartless siblings-and-selves.

Roxas's hand clamped over his wrist, rigor mortis tight.  
His lips moved soundlessly, each syllable formed  
erotically around his labia pink lips.

Demyx would never quite forget his words.

"Uh, let me prove it to you, yeah  
Trumpets and violins I can-uh, hear in the distance  
I think theyre callin our name  
Maybe now you cant hear them,  
But you will, ha-ha, if you just…" Ha-ha.

Demyx sat watching Johnny Cash and Bryan Ferry  
rutting desperately against a backdrop of enormous  
orange goldfish and miniscule blackmoor fish.

The waters shifted, impatient and displaced and Demyx  
looked up.

Xigbar was the only one who was not afraid _(even  
Roxas, who feared the questing lips of hungry little  
fishes.)_

Xigbar moved easily through the spaces where Demyx  
ruled and Xigbar's lips moved, snarling. Demyx  
thought carefully on Roxas's words.

Pacts and exchanges, a soul-centering market,  
conducted beneath the darkness and beyond the third  
sky of the End of the World.

At the cynosure of desire and twisted superstitions…

Low tide has little strength, but with the counting of time it  
grows.

He moans deep in his throat and then wakes, screaming  
for breath.

He bends his ear for what may be Jimi Hendrix, but  
might just as likely be Menudo, the white noise of his  
thoughts is intense.

Gone-and-back-again boy cradles his face in his hands  
and thinks about Roxas's words, the words he had  
formed with his Persian red lips.

A snail and a Siamese fighting fish were married in a  
vase on his desktop as he wept, terrified.

* * *

**Standard Disclaimers. Lyrics by Jimi Hendrix. Ha-ha.  
**

* * *


End file.
